


learning to speak

by Batman



Series: jaywalkers [10]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6792061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batman/pseuds/Batman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Kei’s the one who, in a misguided attempt to give back what he gets from the universe, essentially messes things up for himself. This might be one of those attempts, honestly, but Kuroo is already reaching out to take it from his palm and looking down at it with a small smile.</p><p>Today in jaywalking: contemplating what shirts not to wear, the cons of contemplating what shirts not to wear, and the karmic imbalance of the universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	learning to speak

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [учимся разговаривать](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12436566) by [named_Juan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/named_Juan/pseuds/named_Juan)



> I Did say I would update at a decent rate. I Did say that. I am indeed deliberately capitalising the D. 
> 
> Okay now that just sounds wrong but HERE. HERE U GO. HERE U GO WITH THE CHILDREN. I really don't have anything witty to add here, and we all know how much that must hurt me since my author's notes are usually characterised by their sparkling intellectual humour. 
> 
> (Title from "Fall" by Ed Sheeran. I Wonder Why.)

_Hey. It’s me._

There isn’t enough coffee in his coffee, and really, after the sheer quantity of all-nighters he’s pulled, even from the days before university started, he should be used to his own measurements by now. Exempting the bad nights, of course, but he’s used to even those in a way. He should know his damn coffee.

_I thought it’d be better if I just left a voicemail instead of calling. I know how busy you are with your studies._

It’s not that he doesn’t like the cold. Actually, the closer it gets to winter, the more he finds himself capable of handling the sheer _bullshit_ that people around him are fond of throwing in his direction. He thinks it might have something to do with his bullshit-handling capacity being inversely proportional to the strength and brightness of the sunlight, but it might also just be the fact that people are actually busier with their lives during winter than they are during summer. Things like that; these theories are too complicated for 9 AM.

_Anyway... Happy birthday, Kei! You’re an adult in a lot more countries now. I’ve wired all the birthday money, go knock yourself out, you know that’s never a question._

He secures Kindaichi’s notes in one of the folders the boy got him. Trust the only other kid on campus as dedicated to Schumpeter as he is to make sure that he’s gifted organisers and 0.05 centimeter pens for his birthday. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or just accept the fact that after just the first semester, he’s going to be established as the resident Only-Talks-About-Studies, with the occasional detour of bemoaning the existence of Bokuto Koutarou.

_...Ta-Tadashi says it’s getting colder, make sure you keep warm! Oh, and don’t forget to buy a new pair of boots for the snow. The two of you should go and get it done together! I know you hate shopping. Oh, and grandma says to have lots of soup._

It looks like rain. He hopes it’ll start to look like snow soon, though. He imagines the path to his faculty will become that much more difficult to navigate— not that it isn’t already doing a _stunning_ job of breaking the morale of every wishful student taking it, with all its _brambles_ on the side and the trees that have honestly been shedding their leaves ever since he can remember, it’s like they didn’t get the memo of the concept of spring (but then again that’s what some would say about _him_ so he’s inclined to keep his weather-related complaints to himself) and the way the sun always seems to come in at the _wrongest_ angle every morning— but at least the sight of the snow will make up for it. Before it turns muddy, that is.

 _Umm, that’s all. I won’t keep you too long_.

One of the most frustrating things about fall weather is that swift calculation one needs to make about when exactly to take their coat off after stepping inside a building. A minute’s delay and it’s going to get stuffy beyond tolerance. He maintains with a lot of dignity (that some would interpret as haughtiness) that he has very low tolerance for a great amount of things that happen in the world around him (for example, melting ice cream, bumblebees, and headphones thieves) but really, being uncomfortably warm is probably on the very top of that list. He _loathes_ it.

 _Have a good day, Kei! Text me if you have time_.

Kei takes his coat off and steps into the carefree chatter of the hallway, and he throws his shoulders back for no reason at all.

 

●●●

 

All right, all right. He’s going to make a concession. Kei thinks he’s perfectly justified in believing that on most days the universe has it out for him and him only (see: Bokuto Koutarou being his next-door neighbour, having to grow up with the likes of Kageyama and Hinata, and the fact that he has one professor who teaches them statistics at 8 AM on Wednesdays and is also fond of cancelling class and forgetting to inform said class of the fact of the cancellation. No, Kei is absolutely not bitter) but on very special occasions, very, _very_ special occasions, he’s willing to acknowledge that there exist other human beings on the planet (in the country, even) who sometimes end up being just as unfortunate as he is when it comes to earning the favour of the universe. That is, that this “favour” of the universe is basically nonexistent. Fictitious, as it were. A false carrot at the end of the proverbial stick (the stick being all the terrible events that happen to such unlucky people) to keep the man going.

Hitoka Yachi is one such person. Kei would muster up a grudge about having to share the title of _THE UNIVERSE HATES MY VERY EXISTENCE_ if the little girl weren’t such a, well, little girl. In theory he knows that she’s supremely intelligent and would probably kick his ass when it comes to about fifty seven different trials of life and, in experience, knows that at the very least she’s an extremely accomplished baker-slash-designer. He probably shouldn’t be referring to her as a little girl, which brings him to his explanation— she _really_ is a _very little girl_. Standing in front of him by the vending machine as she is right now, she barely comes up to his elbow (he wishes he was joking, but Kei does not _joke_ ) and he can perfectly see the blonde mess of hair on the crown of her head. There is a bright blue pencil going through the mess. Kei has never understood how people accomplish that particular feat, but that would also have to do with the fact that he has never let his hair grow longer than an inch and a half a day of his life. That’s Tadashi’s business.

Speaking of hair, and Tadashi, and Hitoka Yachi. There are some, uh, some hairclips fixed in beside the pencil, of the same nature as the one she lent to Tadashi.

‘Good morning, Tsukishima-kun!’ she beams, and Kei almost feels sorry for what he’s about to do, but not quite sorry enough. (He rarely does.)

‘Good morning,’ he replies, then proceeds to look very, _very_ pointedly at the clips in her hair. ‘I see your stock wasn’t affected.’

‘My sto—’ Comprehension dawns on Yachi’s face, along with a very specific look that Kei has often seen on the faces of others. He’s dubbed this particular expression as _Did Tsukishima Kei Actually Manage To Look Down On My Entire Existence In The Span Of Fifteen Seconds? That Takes A Lot Of Dedication And Skill_. ‘I—’

‘Only joking,’ he says, because after all, it’s Yachi. Even Kei is not that inclined to see what hell has in store for him after what life is putting him through. He reaches out and tweaks the blue pencil to prove his point, and then walks past her before she can say anything.

By the time he reaches his amphitheater, the humour has worn off. He uses the vestiges to arrange his face into an acceptably bored expression as he settles around the middle section and saves places for Kindaichi and Kunimi. It’s always a ritual to put all his things on the desk before class starts, especially if it’s one of those three-hour lectures that they collectively refer to as Boss Battles. He has to lay out his reports, notes, laptop and coffee in that order, and then plug his phone in to sync his notes. It’s a clinical method.

 _Hey. It’s me. I thought it’d be better if I just left a voicemail instead of calling_.

Kei locks the phone.

 

●●●

 

October eases into November before he even knows it. Hinata and Kageyama manage to drag him along to some ridiculous Halloween campfire thing that the freshmen are having in the woods, apparently, and while Kei is not, on the _best_ of days, very emotionally inclined to view a bunch of screaming teenagers dressed in outlandish costumes consuming candy at a kilogram-per-minute rate, he also cannot, in good conscience, pass up the opportunity to take incriminating videos of his classmates. (He _does_ understand Bokuto in that regard, honestly. It’s just that he wishes he weren’t on the receiving end of Bokuto having the same kind of ideas that he does when it comes to blackmail material.)

The cold creeps in in a way that almost makes him scared of what’s to come for winter. It’s different out here, harsher than it used to be in the town where he grew up, and he finds himself wondering if he’s cut out for a cold city winter after all, if mid-November winds make his ears and head hurt like this.

An uncharacteristically sunny day in mid-November is also when his phone casually starts blowing up around noontime.

 

 **Bokuto [11:30]**  
r u going

 **Bokuto [11:30]**  
tell me ur going

 **Bokuto [11:30]**  
u gotta be going

 **Me [11:38]**  
Going WHERE.

 **Bokuto [11:39]**  
he’s gonna invite u

 **Bokuto [11:39]**  
kuroo

 **Bokuto [11:39]**  
birthday

 

There are admittedly many annoying things about having to text with Bokuto, of which the principal one is usually how the man tends to send messages at the rate at which the words formulate in his mind. At other times, Bokuto also sends half a text in the morning and the other half in the evening as if no time has passed between the two at all. If Kei wanted to let him know that he takes his messages into consideration in the first place, then he would have informed him about how terrible that habit is. At any rate, he’s surprised because at this particular moment, there is something that annoys him even more about the series of texts he’s just received and for once it doesn’t even really have anything to do with Bokuto. (Which is a pleasant surprise.)

No, the most supremely annoying thing about this little series of texts is the fact that just the sight of Kuroo Tetsurou’s name spelled out on the screen made his throat do something not funny in the least and borderline worrying. _That_ is what’s annoying. Not to mention Kei still doesn’t have any idea what Bokuto is talking about.

 

 **Me [11:49]**  
Well, he sure hasn’t invited me yet. Can’t exactly answer you until he does.

 **Me [11:49]**  
IF. IF he does.

 **Bokuto [11:50]**  
that’s why i said he’s GONNA invite u, genius

 **Bokuto [11:51]**  
u can already answer me tho

 **Me [11:55]**  
I absolutely can’t.

 **Bokuto [11:55]**  
sure u can

 **Bokuto [11:57]**  
u just gotta say “yes uncle bokuto i will be going”

 **Me [12:01]**  
Right.

 **Bokuto [12:02]**  
listen i know y’all skipped mine bc of being the studious little shits u are

 **Bokuto [12:02]**  
but ur so coming to this one

 

He doesn’t know what else he expected (which, first of all, he feels that most of the narration of the various unsettling events of his life seems to begin with _he doesn’t know what he expected_ these days, but he’ll address that when the universe stops knocking his legs out from under him for one hot second) but very shortly, there is that unmistakeable, simply _awful_ , apocalyptic noise coming from outside his front door.

Having Bokuto Koutarou as a neighbour does not come without its benefits, Kei will not shy away from acknowledging this. The benefits are the following:

1) The honourable foodie has a collection of midnight snacks that can trump Kei’s on any day. Everything from chocolate to rum to microwave pasta to herbal tea. Kei has what he calls a minimalist pantry and what his grandmother would probably shed tears over if she saw the contents of it. Which is to say, it consists mostly of sweets, milk bread and fruit. And the occasional depressing ingredients one needs to make and consume a “real meal”.

2)

Actually, there is only one benefit. The food is possibly the only benefit of having Bokuto Koutarou as a next-door neighbour. On the other hand, the number of traumatic experiences Kei has had to live through because of sharing one wall with the man is too large to properly quantify. Within those traumatic experiences, this one takes the strawberry shortcake:

See, Bokuto has very thoroughly and unabashedly established himself as being in the less-than-patient half of the population. He exemplifies this in many ways, of which the one of most immediate urgency is the current one. The idea is, Bokuto will knock thrice on the door of a room he wishes to enter. If the door is not opened in that time, he will start either hooting or howling wordlessly, or sing whatever is the most annoying song on the charts that week.

Kei has never met a human being like this before. It’s _astonishing_. He is, as of very recently, _twenty years old_.

Currently, the new twenty-year-old has chosen to go down the hooting road, but Kei doesn’t let him get in further than three terrible sounds before he wrenches the door open and fixes his best, most exasperated death glare on him.

‘ _WHAT_ ,‘ he says.

‘Party,’ Bokuto replies immediately. ‘Kuroo.’

‘ _NO._ ‘

 

●●●

 

It’s the second time in two months that he is standing in front of a mirror with an unmeasureable amount of...something, in his heart. November the seventeenth, the day when he betrays all of his principles and then a few that he didn’t even know he had.

Akiteru might not understand a single thing about Kei, but he is at the very least spot-on when he says _I know you hate shopping_. Kei loathes anything that has to do with making more than the barest minimum of efforts to maintain his external appearance. If his hair is at a comfortable length and he’s not wearing terrible polos in cold weather (unlike certain people he could mention) it’s good enough for him. If anything, he tends to treat his attire as a very visual representation of his apathy— all he needs to keep around himself is the well-worn, grey Jack and Jones hoodie that is the last thing to be packed and first to be unpacked wherever he goes.

Considering all of that, the fact that he is currently standing in front of a mirror and looking at himself and consciously trying to choose what to wear is so _scandalous_ that he’s half-tensing up for lightning to strike him at any moment now. At least all his jeans look the same.

Worse is the motive behind this sudden interest in his wardrobe. It isn’t as if he’s about to go to an important interview or something of the sort, since those are at least not in the immediate future. It’s also not like he’s dressing up for a wedding— those are _easy_ ; he can just put on a _suit_ , it’s _one_ item, or at least a singular _concept_ — or a funeral, unless one counts his dignity.

No, what he is _dressing up_ for is, in fact, an event that he was very vehement about _not_ attending as of a few days ago. An event that he still has second thoughts about attending, purely out of fear of whatever expression will be on Bokuto’s face when he sees Kei step through the doorway. An event that honestly he shouldn’t have been invited to in the first place, and one that he should very, very definitely have declined said invitation to.

That is to say, he is _dressing up_ for Kuroo Tetsurou’s gathering of Satan’s minions to celebrate twenty years to the day of his birth. Not only is he _going_ in the first place, but he is _dressing up_. If this can be called dressing up, that is— he isn’t sure how these things work but even so he thinks standing in front of a mirror and glaring helplessly at your reflection for fifteen minutes hardly counts as dressing up. At least, as he mentioned already, all his jeans look the same. At least he does not have to look someone in the eye and say _yes, I deliberated over what pair of jeans to wear_. Not that he thinks he’ll have that kind of occasion anyway, but one never knows. With Sugawara and Akaashi in the same room, any kind of deception is probably the demeanor equivalent of wearing a flashing red light on the top of your head. Complete with sirens.

Unfortunately, he cannot extend the same level of nihilistic flexibility to the choice of his shirt, since his shirts do actually look a little different from each other. All the statement ones are overruled immediately, especially a particularly charming piece with _BORN TO BE WILD IN URBAN JUNGLE_ emblazoned across the front. Now, Kei isn’t denying that he was _BORN TO BE WILD IN URBAN JUNGLE_ , but he thinks he’d rather keep this fact from Kuroo. He doesn’t even remember where the shirt came from.

He mentally sifts through his limited catalogue of respectable party attire and zeroes in on The Shirt. Now, there are a lot of shirts in the world, and so The Shirt clearly refers to one that is slightly...different from the rest. The factor that makes it different is that it is not, in fact, a shirt that he bought himself (although he doubts he bought the _BORN TO BE WILD IN URBAN JUNGLE_ shirt himself either) but one that was actually gifted to him for his own birthday. A silk number with stripes, very reminiscent of something he wore for Bokuto Koutarou’s terrible, no-good, very bad photoshoot.

He considers it for all of ten seconds before recoiling physically from his reflection, horrified beyond human comprehension this time. So now not only is he _going_ to Kuroo Tetsurou’s Satanic nameday ritual, but he is also _dressing up_ , and while _dressing up_ , he has now unironically considered wearing the shirt aforementioned Kuroo Tetsurou presented to him.

If there ever was any hope for Kei in the first place, it is swiftly swirling down the drain at this point.

 

●●●

 

The first thing that he registers when he pushes the heavy glass door open is that it is much, much calmer and— safer, almost, than he would have imagined it to be. Of course he wouldn’t throw Bokuto the insincerity of lying about why he skipped _his_ birthday; he really did have to stay back and study to get back into the swing of things— but he can’t deny that on the way to _Le Petit Scotch Tape_ he _did_ entertain the slightest bit of apprehension about what the evening would bring him.

Now, it seems like he didn’t really have a huge cause to worry. Most of the people in the room— of which very few actually turn to him, for which he is glad— are familiar faces, and there’s always Yachi, who’s still behind the counter in her apron but is smiling wide, albeit shy. Another pleasant side-effect of the winter approaching is that sunsets are earlier and earlier; it’s only a little past six but the sky is already darkening bit by bit, and the world is always a little easier to bear at night, even if it’s just because the light softens all reality.

Whatever the reasons are, the cumulative is that the cafe is goldlit, with pink shadows, looking quite similar to how it did the first time he saw it— calm, accommodating the changes of dawn and dusk, a place holding a lot more comfort for him than he realised it did.

Then, of course, Bokuto spots him. The schadenfreude on his face belongs in the playroll of his own camera, but Kei manages to keep his own expression neutral as the boy bounds towards him.

‘WELL,’ Bokuto says. ‘WELL, THEN.’

‘Please don’t,’ Kei sighs, but then he spots Akaashi waving from where he’s leaning against one of the counters, and he smiles despite himself and waves back. It’s true that they’ve only crossed each other once in a while since the night they were introduced, but Kei isn’t dense enough not to understand his gravitation towards others when it happens.

After all, if he was, he wouldn’t be here right now.

On cue, there’s a loud ‘Tsukki! You came!’ from behind Yachi near the kitchen, and Kei stretches to look over Bokuto’s shoulder and sees him. He looks so simply handsome that Kei almost forgets to be annoyed at the _Tsukki_ , but the delay is too long and now he can’t show it on his face. At least he can prevent himself from showing anything else, or from hiding it like he always wants to, so he does just that and stares determinedly at the floor while Kuroo vaults over the counter, narrowly avoids hitting one of the barstools, and strides over.

He’s in dark, dark, almost-black skinny jeans, and they are definitely not the ones that Kei was originally affronted by what seems like a million years ago, because _these_ are taking Kuroo’s legs to a new level, and first of all, he really wishes he wasn’t standing here in the middle of a cafe and making remarks about Kuroo Tetsurou’s legs. (Anyone’s legs, for that matter, but especially Kuroo Tetsurou’s.) But it isn’t as if looking anywhere else is helpful— it might be his birthday and all, but Kei really thinks that that deep neck of his white T-shirt is a little on this side of audacious— not to mention the jacket he’s thrown on, sleeves rolled to his elbows to reveal the bracelet Kei wishes he hadn’t noticed that Kuroo always has on— and on the other wrist, a watch, large dial gleaming under the overhead lights.

He doesn’t even want to look at his face. He already knows what’s in store there. _Unfair_ , he thinks again. The way he looks right now takes Kei back to the day of the shoot, and it’s sheer injustice that Kuroo can look handsome in so many _different_ ways, staying true to how he can also be _annoying_ in so many different ways.

Kei wants to redo the day, and he hasn’t even been here five minutes.

 

●●●

 

Even if he might be at the guy’s birthday party-thing, Kei hardly knows him inside out. While he can’t escape the nagging realisation that any and all efforts Kuroo has made to talk to him are just that— efforts to talk to him and get to know him better— he also can’t take it seriously. Growing up with the same group of friends and bringing them along to university means that he hasn’t quite understood the mechanics of going from acquaintances to friends. (Bokuto doesn’t count, because a friendship started on the basis of someone sliding a paper under your door that says _UR APARTMENT IS HAUNTED GOOD LUCK_ is not a friendship. As for his classmates, bonding over academia is possibly the purest form of bonding in Kei’s books.) Not understanding the mechanics of going from acquaintances to friends means that he is at once surprised when Kuroo treats him with familiarity, and also surprised when he doesn’t actually get to interact with him as much as he does with others.

It’s complicated. The gist of the thing is that even if he is very much present at Kuroo’s party and feels, very keenly, the weight of the present that he still can’t believe he went out and bought for the guy, he hardly knows him as well as everyone else here does. And even then, he can say that Kuroo _would_ bake all the sweets for his own party. Kei’s sure Yachi was only allowed to do the garnishing, and that too because she must have gently bullied Kuroo into letting her do it, the way she sweetly but firmly got Kei’s shirt size out of him (he could’ve worn the shirt she got him, actually, it was pretty lovely).

It’s because he knows it has to be Kuroo who baked the cupcake he’s biting into right now that makes him almost laugh when he discovers that just like everything else he’s ever eaten from _Le Petit Lantern_ , it is delicious. Of course it is.

Across him, Asahi from third-year marketing is currently being assaulted by Shimizu and another tall, beautiful, short-haired lady. By assault, Kei means that they are attempting to do...something to his hair. Which, incidentally, has a turquoise streak in it that Kei is actually very, very curious about. Going by the distressed look on Asahi’s face, however, he thinks it would be better to hold back. Or at least wait until they _finish_ putting his hair in Minnie Mouse buns.

‘Quite a bunch, aren’t they?’

Kei’s chest seizes up for the briefest of moments, his heart then beginning to flutter desperately in his throat. The cupcake holds no interest.

‘That they are,’ he says to the cupcake which holds no interest. ‘But they’re friends.’

‘That they are.’ Kuroo leans his weight on an elbow on the counter, and turns to look at Kei. ‘I hope you’re having a good time, though. You kind of ran away from Suga back there. Not that he minds.’

Kei clears his throat and nods a little, smiles in what he hopes is apology. ‘I, uh...’

Kuroo waits for a moment, then smiles and tilts his head a little. ‘As long as you’re having a good time, Tsukki.’

There it is again. _Tsukki_. He can’t even be fully annoyed the way he wants to be, and he’s too proud to tell anyone, including himself, that it’s that same confusion acting up— they’ve barely shared a meal and Kuroo is calling him _Tsukki_. He doesn’t know Kuroo’s favourite colour and Kuroo is calling him _Tsukki_. And Kei doesn’t mind. That’s the thing. Kei doesn’t—

‘HAS.’ Kei looks up right at Bokuto, and is actually quite amazed that the guy decided to interrupt. Not that he was really interrupting something, but judging by the way Bokuto (who obviously thinks he’s doing a good job of hiding his intentions) has been looking at the two of them whenever they’ve been in the same room, Kei would think that he’d choose to be on the other side of the room right now. Apparently not. ‘HAS TSUKKI TOLD YOU ABOUT THAT TIME BACK IN JUNE WHEN—’

‘NO,’ Kei says immediately. He doesn’t know what Bokuto’s about to get started on but he has absolutely _no_ desire for him to get started on it. _Especially_ not in front of Kuroo. Why he cares is beyond him but he chalks it up to normal survival instinct. Whatever it is, he’s very openly glaring at Bokuto at this point, trying his best to threaten him in silence.

‘Okay, get this,’ Bokuto says, setting his beer aside. ’So this one day, I hear this—’

To Kei’s horror, he proceeds to recount to Kuroo in excruciating detail not one, not two, but _multiple_ stories of the early summer months. Listening to them, thunderstruck, he realises just how many times he’s managed to embarrass himself in front of Bokuto Koutarou just by dint of being his neighbour. In retrospect, that stupid _Bubble Butt_ video might be the least of his worries. It is also the least of his worries since Bokuto has decided to cheerfully unload just about everything else in front of Kuroo, and honestly, there is no way things could get any worse than this.

If Kei was genuinely angry, he would have left the moment Bokuto started— but he isn’t, and just a couple of terrible stories in, he understands, or so he thinks, why this is happening. Here it is again— he can’t possibly know Kuroo as well as he wants to— and he does, he _does_ want to— but Bokuto absolutely can, and whatever he is here to accomplish, it is at least working out in part. Kei sees it on Kuroo’s face— the quiet, polite smile changing into focused reactions, changing further into genuine amusement.

Bokuto is simultaneously a little more amazing and terrifying. As he delivers yet another punch line at Kei’s expense, Kei watches as Kuroo gives up and bursts into full-on laughter.

Kei almost zones out.

When he blinks himself back to the present, Kuroo is leaning against the counter and laughing himself sick. Every time Kei thinks he’s done, he looks up, spots Kei, and shakes his head and starts laughing again. Perhaps if Kei wasn’t so embarrassingly infatuated with the rise of colour in Kuroo’s cheeks, he would find it in himself to be affronted.

As it is, he isn’t. So he sighs, rolls his eyes, and watches as Kuroo laughs, laughs and laughs.

 

●●●

 

It’s almost midnight when they start to disperse. Shimizu and Michimiya, as Kei now knows her by, are the first ones to leave, stating some kind of early rehearsal the next morning and consequently shaming Sugawara into making his exit as well. Kei would normally have been the very first to leave— he really doesn’t detest being around others regardless of how tiring company can sometimes be; it’s just that he doesn’t quite mind going home after a few hours either— but a number of things are keeping him at the cafe. The ambiance is the least of them; Kuroo the most.

So he sits at one of the barstools and waves goodbye to Yachi, and takes another sip of his Coke as the place gradually empties. Eventually it’s just Kuroo bidding goodbye to Asahi at the door, and Bokuto and Akaashi talking in murmurs in one of the booths. It’s when they get up, presumably to leave, that Kei knows that he has to go too.

He doesn’t know why it feels so strange to be leaving already— yes, he knows that he has yet to give Kuroo what he bought, and he also knows himself enough to be sure that he won’t quite get the nerve to do it until he’s in the doorway himself— and, more importantly, doesn’t know where this _already_ came from. It’s almost _midnight_. He does have class tomorrow, after all.

‘I’ll walk him home,’ Bokuto says, and Kei doesn’t miss the arm he slips around Akaashi’s waist. ‘Be back in an hour, don’t set the place on fire.’

‘Right,’ Kuroo laughs. ‘Don’t set the _town_ on fire.’

‘You know me, hotshot.’

Kei knows he’s supposed to leave, and he makes himself get up. Kuroo looks at him and there is a very...careful expression that he is wearing, so Kei is careful with choosing his words as well. Says something about class and schedules and how the cupcakes were great. Kuroo smiles and nods through it all, and Kei almost wants to say something more. Anything more.

He’s never been the best with words, so instead he makes his best attempt at a smile and waves quickly, follows Bokuto and Akaashi out the door.

They’re halfway across the parking lot when Kei remembers the package in his pocket. He curses softly and turns around, and takes only a second or two to frown about the fact that Bokuto didn’t even ask why, before sprinting back to the cafe.

He has the strangest déjà vu, because the last time he forgot something and ran back to this cafe, Kuroo Tetsurou was up to Extremely Dangerous Things. And sure enough, he’s following through this time too:

The music has already been switched out for something slower, mellower, more appropriate to the late hour. The jacket is laid out over the counter and Kuroo is stretching, smiling up at his watch in the light. Kei has a few brief thoughts of which _arms_ takes precedence. They’re as strong as he’d expect them to be, although leaner than Bokuto’s. The rich gold of his skin stretches over them, setting off the brightness of the watch and the silver glint of his bracelet on the other wrist, and Kei thinks this might be the first time that he’s ever stared at the hem of a sleeve so intensely.

‘Hey,’ he says, and winces at his own voice. ‘Sorry, uh.’

Kuroo straightens up and whirls around to look at him immediately. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hi.’

His face makes Kei want to turn around and leave after all, if only to gather himself a little. Even the little sprint in the cold has him slightly out of breath, or at least he hopes that it’s the sprint. He clears his throat and reaches into the pocket of his jacket, closes his fist around the clumsily-wrapped package and reconsiders one last time.

‘I got you something,’ he says before he can cement a decision. ‘I...I— I forgot to give it to you earlier.’

‘You didn’t have to,’ Kuroo says softly, and Kei knows he means it and of all things he feels the slightest flare of irritation. _Why not?_

‘Well, I did,’ he settles for saying instead. ‘It’s...it’s not all that big anyway.’

Kuroo waits while the song passes from one slow melody to another, and Kei finally pulls it out. He’s wrapped it in black and fixed a blue ribbon over it, and now it looks so much more reckless than it did when he was buying it. Sometimes he’s the one who, in a misguided attempt to give back what he gets from the universe, essentially messes things up for himself. This might be one of those attempts, honestly, but Kuroo is already reaching out to take it from his palm and looking down at it with a small smile.

He pulls gently at the ribbon and lets it fall to the counter, and unwraps the paper so slowly and carefully, just like Kei would. Right now it only serves to add to Kei’s anxiety, but he plays with his hands and doesn’t let it show.

Then Kuroo’s laughing, gently, briefly. Kei looks up and before anything else, sees a smile that makes a disproportionate amount of warmth bloom in his chest. Kuroo is dangling the keychain in the direct line of his vision, twisting it this way and that and shaking his head.

‘Dinosaurs, huh,’ he says, and Kei shrugs.

‘Dinosaurs,’ he says. ‘Well, one. I mean. Maybe if you have it in your infernal car you’ll remember the day you almost killed me.’

‘Oh, I think about that every day already,’ Kuroo says, but he’s grinning wider now and reaching into the pocket of his discarded jacket, pulling out his keys. ‘I’ve never really been a keychain kind of guy.’

‘Really? I’d have thought you’d need to keep Bokuto’s medical details on a dog tag or something. God knows what that guy gets up to.’

‘Ruthless.’ But then Kuroo is stepping forward as if to hug Kei, and then stopping as if he’s realised what he’s doing. ‘What time does your class start tomorrow?’

‘Noon, why?’ Is he attempting to get Kei out of here?

‘How long do you sleep, if I may ask?’

‘...about seven hours. Why?’

Kuroo grins. ‘Good. You have time then. Dance with me.’

What?

‘What?’

Kuroo grins _wider_ , if possible, and points up to wherever the speakers must be, and Kei lets the beats of the song play over him again, and frowns. ‘Dance with me,’ he says. ‘Just a little while.’

‘Kuroo,’ Kei says, and for once the thrill of the name is utterly secondary to the little fire sparking inside him. Not fire, nerves. Annoyance. _Nerves_. ‘I don’t dance.’

‘Sure you do,’ Kuroo says cheerfully. ‘Come on, it’s really easy, you can just follow me.’

‘I don’t think you understand,’ Kei says, but his voice is already losing. ‘I _really_ don’t dance.’

‘Is this going to be a High School Musical thing?’ Kuroo’s stepping forward again, extending an arm, but he stops again before he gets too close and for that alone, Kei feels like he should be taking his hand already. ‘Because I can go all night.’

‘I couldn’t take up all that time.’ He’s pleased at how sarcastic he manages to sound, and horrified at how much he fails at the same time. ‘No, seriously, Kuroo. I— I. Seriously.’

‘You know I won’t force you.’ Kuroo’s hand is still right there, not so close but not that far either. Waiting, like Kuroo’s been doing so many times this evening, for the strangest of things. For Kei to finish his drink, for Kei to finish his sentence, for Kei to finish. ‘But I’m not a half-bad dancer. I’m just saying. Don’t make me pull out the birthday emotional blackmail.’

‘I’m amazed that you think you can emotionally blackmail me into anything,’ Kei says. ‘In fact, I’m amazed that you think I would dance with you under _any_ condition whatsoever.’

Kuroo just smiles wider and tilts his head to one side, looking almost _happily_ right into Kei’s eyes. There is no hesitation or disappointment in his gaze.

And so Kei will later count this as another misguided attempt to fight the universe that terribly, terribly, terribly backfired on him and landed him into trouble even worse than the sort that he usually ends up in, but that is for later. For now, he reaches out and feels, for the first time, Kuroo’s hand in his own.

It’s cool, and his grip when he employs it is gentle _and_ firm, and before Kei can notice any more, Kuroo is already pulling him forward. He stumbles on the last step out of two and a half, and grabs the hem of Kuroo’s shirt to steady himself, and stares down at his hand in pure incredulity.

Kuroo smells sweet yet sharp, and up this close Kei can see how the neck of his shirt has been pulled off just a little bit to the side. Up this close, Kei can see the details of his watch and the slightly frayed edges of the leather section of his bracelet. Kuroo’s other hand goes around Kei’s wrist and tugs gently, guides it upwards to rest on his shoulder. Then he trails his hand down Kei’s side— not quite touching, but he might as well be dragging ice over Kei’s skin even from that respectful distance— and shifts it to the small of Kei’s back.

‘Follow my feet,’ he murmurs, and Kei’s heart somersaults. ‘I’ll keep count, and you follow.’

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Kei can’t recognise the song and wouldn’t know what to do with the information if he recognised it anyway. One, two, three, four. It might be just him, but it genuinely seems like the lights of the cafe have been dimmed just a little, just enough for everything to be half-dark, half-gold, just enough for the music to seem much louder than it probably is. One, two, three, four. He’s the farthest that one could get from romanticism, and so he knows that there is no way his feet are moving exactly as they’re supposed to. And yet, he manages to follow Kuroo’s. Slowly, clumsily, not quite in sync with the percussion at all times. But Kuroo is patient and laughing and quiet in ways Kei didn’t know people could be quiet. (And Kei knows a lot of ways in which people can be quiet, but he’s never known this one— that someone can be quiet and so, so loud in the same moment.) One, two, three, four.

His breathlessness eventually eases out into the steady, if fast, thumping of his heart against his chest, and when he has the impulse to move closer and put his arms around Kuroo much tighter, he isn’t surprised (even though he doesn’t follow through). One, two, three, four. It could be that it’s past midnight, or it could be that he’s tired, or it could be that a part of him is still disjointedly thinking about tomorrow’s noon class, and Asahi’s turquoise hair, and Bokuto’s confident, easy smile. Whatever it is, the combination of everything happening right now has managed to close down the part of his mind that would protest to all of this, and he can’t say he misses it.

‘See?’ Kuroo says. ‘I’m going to stop keeping count now.’

‘When I was a kid,’ Kei says, ‘my first bicycle had those training wheels attached to the back.’ _One, two, three, four_. ‘I thought I’d never do it without them, but my brother removed them one day and said he’d hold onto the back.’

 _One, two, three, four_. Kuroo hums and strokes his thumb over the ridge of Kei’s lowest rib.

Kei suddenly doesn’t want to finish the story. He knows Kuroo’s guessed the end already, and if that wasn’t enough, then the strange satisfaction he feels at having said something in the first place is perfect for him. _One, two, three, four. He never told me when he let go_.

‘I love this song,’ Kuroo says. ‘Koutarou always calls me a sap for it.’

‘I wouldn’t blame him.’

‘Sure you wouldn’t, Mister Finnish Garden Cult.’

Kei blinks. ‘Finnish Garden _what_?’

Then Kuroo blinks too, and dissolves once more into laughter, and Kei forgets to keep count but his feet move on their own like the bicycle did all those years ago. ‘Oh, shit, let me tell you this one thing...’

 

●●●

 

Bokuto never returns. Kei has no idea whether Kuroo texted him or whether he divined something on his own, but it’s just the two of them until it hits over an hour past midnight, and then Kei really has to take his leave. He doesn’t so much step away from Kuroo as he trails away, almost shamelessly keeping their hands connected until the last possible moment, then moves the tips of his fingers away from the tips of Kuroo’s.

‘Wait,’ Kuroo says, and Kei waits. He holds up the key with its brand new keychain and smiles again. ‘Let me drive you home.’

Kei remembers for just a second how he was afraid of what the evening would bring him. In his first non-misguided attempt to give back to the universe, he resolves to stop being afraid.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Let’s go, Vercetti.’

**Author's Note:**

> The BORN TO BE WILD IN URBAN JUNGLE T-shirt is very much real. I know this because I own it. I own it because I nicked it from Teddy. Thank you, Teddy.
> 
> Additionally, and always, [Ksenya](archiveofourown.org/users/fyolette) is my beta godmother and I would be a 2016 remix of the "NOW KISS" meme without her.
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/soldierpoetking) and [Tumblr](http://sturlsons.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Also the other day I had this shot and it was in an orange peel and it was on fire. I assume that's roughly how Tsukki feels right now.


End file.
